On May 1, 1978, I moved from the state of Maine, headed for Arizona. That melancholy morning there were patches of snow on the ground, unusual for so late in the season, even in Maine.
Five mornings later, when I awoke from sleep in the cab of my U-Haul on the first morning of my new life in the land of warmth and sunshine, I was shocked to discover six inches of snow on the running board. In the twenty-one years I have lived in the Phoenix I have seen snow in Arizona only four times.
On May 1, 1999, history partially repeated itself, under much different circumstances, when, instead of driving through northern Arizona snow, I ran through a snow-dusted forest in central Arizona.
The occasion was the twenty-first edition of the Whiskey Row Marathon in Prescott, Arizona. The race gets its eyebrow-raising name from the plethora of western style saloons on the street the course begins on.
As these events go, Whiskey Row is small. There were 164 marathon finishers. There is also a half marathon which had 291 finishers, a 10K with 253 finishers, and a two-mile walk. I ran the 10K myself in 1996, and the half marathon in 1998. At that time I determined that I would run the full marathon next time. Another obligation on race day prevented me from being there in 1998.
The race is also cheap--$17 for the marathon gets you a run through the woods, a superlative T-shirt, aid stations serviced by enthusiastic volunteers, offering water, PowerAde and oranges, and on completion, a small finisher's medal, and a bit of food if you get there while there is some left. (I didn't.)
T-shirts from earlier years have earned kudos from Runners' World magazine. This year's shirt is another hit. It's a long-sleever with the words WHISKEY ROW MARATHON in giant black letters with red shadow arched across the whole width of the shirt. Unlike most other race shirts, this one also has those words on the back of the shirt, above the sponsors' logos. Shirts with the word marathon prominently displayed earn a special place in my heart and wardrobe. These become my dress T-shirts. I wear them to work and out to dinner.
Under the label on the front is a circle of ten alternating running shoes and cowboy boots, with the boot toes toward the center, but the shoe toes pointed outward. The shirt alone is worth the price of the race.
Although Whiskey Row measures the standard marathon distance, it has been described by some who have run it as a 26.2-mile ultramarathon because of its difficulty. Runners' World has cited Whiskey Row as one of the five toughest marathons in the US because of the long, steep hills, made more difficult by the terrain's elevation.
The course is an out and back with essentially four segments that look like an inverted W on the elevation guide shown in this chart.
The race begins on Montezuma Street in the block south of Gurley, on the west side of the courthouse in the center of Prescott, at elevation 5,354 feet, and heads immediately uphill. After a brief southerly jaunt on town streets, it takes off in a westerly direction along Copper Basin Road, rising steeply and almost without interruption until it reaches a beautiful scenic lookout at the eight-mile point, where the elevation is 6,975 feet. There the course winds northeasterly for 5.1 miles, plunging screamingly downhill, dropping to 5,700 feet at 13.1 miles.
Then, because Whiskey Row is an out and back race, runners get to turn around and run the whole thing the other direction, with the end on Cortez in the block south of Gurley, on the opposite side of the courthouse from where it began. That first 5.1 miles back makes you repent quickly of any indiscreet excesses of energy expended on the downhill.
A look at the race's record times helps to put its arduousness in perspective. The men's course record is 2:47. Compare that with the current world marathon record of 2:06:05, or a typical finish in the 2:10 range at most larger flat marathons featuring elite runners. Whiskey Row's second best time until today was 2:54. Winner Bill Cuculic now holds that position with his win of 2:50:40. Some years the winning time has been over 3:30.
The women's record at Whiskey Row is 3:34. Tegla Laroupe's current phenomenal world marathon record is 2:20. Today Pam Golden came close to a new course record with her win in 3:35:37.
The conclusion to be drawn from this analysis is that a runner's very best effort is likely to yield a personal worst by a substantial margin as compared with his or her flat times. And so it consistently proves to be.
We left Phoenix for Prescott at 2:30 P.M. on Friday afternoon, arriving at the Hotel St. Michael, race headquarters, by 4:30. This hotel appears to be at least seventy-five years old. The rooms are small. Our window looked out at a brick wall five feet away. However, everything is squeaky clean and functional.
The biggest advantage of staying at the St. Michael is that runners can step from the side entrance onto the starting line. Unfortunately, hotel guests had to be checked out by 11:00 A.M. on Saturday, when some runners were still on the course, meaning they were unable to shower before leaving.
After picking up our race packets and T-shirts, rather than buying into the always tasty pasta dinner offered at St. Michael, we went to the Gurley Street Grill, a pasta restaurant with an ambiance of Gemütlichkeit located right across the street, where we had eaten after the half marathon two years ago. A full plate of cashew chicken stir fry on linguini chased with several tumblers of lemonade served well to carboload me for the day to follow.
We stayed and chatted a while with running friends who came in as we were about to leave, and learned there would be an early start at 5:00 A.M. for anyone who wanted it. I mulled over the pros and cons of starting early until I retired for the night, but decided to stick with the 6:00 A.M. start. In retrospect, I believe that if I ever run Whiskey Row again, I will take the early start.
When we left the restaurant, it was raining steadily, and the temperature was dropping. Things did not look good. I can handle cold, and I can handle wet, but I have a hard time with cold and wet when I'm prancing through the woods wearing barely more than what amounts to fancy underwear.
Back at the hotel, I laid out my gear according to my accustomed ritual, watched baseball until 8:30, then turned out the light and closed my eyes. I had trouble getting to sleep, but the king size bed was cozy. I didn't sleep deeply, but rested comfortably for nearly eight hours, and was sleeping soundly when the alarm went off.
At 4:17 A.M. I stepped out of bed and headed for the bathroom, where I tried to manage shaving and munching on a Powerbar at once. That's all I ate before the race because I really didn't want anything more.
One useful feature of our room was a walk-in closet big enough to get dressed in without disturbing my family. The closet was comfortable enough that my daughter did two hours of homework in it before going to bed.
Just before 5:00 A.M. I arrived downstairs. After pouring a mug of coffee, I checked outside. Seventeen early starters had assembled, and were within seconds of beginning to run.
To my delight, the temperature was in the low 40's, it was not raining, and there was no wind. The streets were wet, but drying off rapidly. Until almost the last minute I debated whether to run with a jacket on. No one else had one, so finally I ran back to the room and shed the coat, but wore gloves. Later I was very glad for both choices.
Having a rough idea what was ahead, I surmised that a time of twenty minutes added to my personal worst on a flat marathon course would constitute a pretty good time at Whiskey Row. I hit that nail almost exactly on the head.
The race started promptly at 6:00 A.M. Whiskey Row is one race where it's possible to stand just one or two seconds behind the starting line with impunity. There is presently heavy construction on the street for the first two blocks, so the runners had to funnel through a slight bottleneck less than two hundred feet from the start, but this was not a problem.
Because of the immediate uphill, it was only two blocks before I was breathing heavily. By one mile most runners had passed me and there was a significant gap between me and the pack at the back. Oh my. How badly was I going to lose this race, anyhow? No matter--I expected this. First-timers, cowards, and wimps stay home from races like Whiskey Row. The competition was stiff.
When racing I rarely look over my shoulder. It takes too much effort. But this time I couldn't resist. The pack was at least 100 yards ahead by then, and I heard no sounds of runners behind me. Could I possibly have been running dead last at this early stage? I knew I would finish near the end, but humiliation was not on the agenda. After 2.5 miles I finally glanced behind and saw only two more runners, both quite a distance away. I bolstered my confidence in the knowledge that having finished a mostly uphill 50K six weeks before, I am trained to go the distance, and that I can run continuously once I get to the downhills.
The road is completely open to traffic the entire way. Runners and drivers alike are simply obliged to look out for each other. Getting out of town we had the assistance of numerous policemen on motorcycles, which helped. But at one point I seemed to be quite alone, and heard a car moving slowly behind me, so I stayed on the narrow shoulder to the right to let it pass. After several minutes it was still there. Could this possibly be a sweep vehicle and I was bringing up the rear after all? Finally I had to look. It was an ambulance. Suddenly I felt like potential road kill being sized up by vultures. My confidence sagged briefly. Then the ambulance pulled over.
All this took place while heading inexorably uphill and becoming more and more uncomfortable about it. I don't fear hills, but I don't particularly like them, either, because I'm not very good at running up them. Grunt, grunt, grunt.
At about four miles the pavement ended and we headed into the forest. That's when I learned it had snowed the night before. The fresh snow dusted the ground around the trees, but there was none on the road. Further up the pine branches were white with fresh show. Just enough sun peeped through to make the scene intensely beautiful. By the return trip most of the snow had melted away, except in the highest elevations.
Copper Basin Road was perfect for running. It's a very hard packed and well-maintained dirt road, with few rocks, but enough dust and loose material that a careless step while tearing down a hill could result in a slip and serious injury. The rain and snow from the night before had packed the surface so there was no dust, nor any mud, resulting in great traction. My freshly broken in Montrail Vitesse shoes, a different shoe for me after a dozen consecutive pairs of Brooks Addictions, utterly ate the road like a new set of Michelin tires.
The nine aid stations were quite adequate in my opinion. Rather than rushing through them, because there were no crowds, I came to a full stop at most and stood there chatting with the volunteers while gulping down PowerAde and Succeed! capsules. At each one I was careful to throw my empty cups in the trash rather than on the road, and I made a point of personally thanking whoever served me for volunteering. It's appropriate to display gratitude to strangers who will get up while it's still night to go stand on the side of a road, in the middle of a forest, in the snow, just waiting for me to come along so they can offer me a cup of something to drink.
When I finally reached the lookout at the summit, I didn't stay to admire the scenery, but immediately headed off down the hill, hoping to make some good time. It was a very sweet run. My intent was to throw caution to the wind and pound the downhills. Just a few yards down the road from the lookout is the most beautiful scene on the course. It was also the steepest segment of downhill. It was tempting to stop and look, but I knew I'd be passing it much more slowly the other direction.
One fun aspect of an out and back run is getting to see everyone in the race. Up to the turnaround you meet and greet those who are beating you, which in my case was almost everyone, and on the way back you see who you are still ahead of. One by one people I know struggled by. First came the leader and ultimate winner, followed by another man. Then much to my surprise and delight, the third and fourth place runners were both women. They didn't hold those positions to the end, but as a fan of women's running it was good to see them that far ahead.
Soon thereafter came the runners I know, but never actually see on the course further than ten yards over the starting line, the ones who have time to eat, shower, and check out of their hotels before I finish. First there was Paul, arguably Arizona's best ultrarunner, who placed third overall. Then Ray, who usually runs shirtless, even in the snow, is now 49, has won Whiskey Row three or four times, and placed fifth. Then Craig, who ran his 118th marathon and finished sixth overall. Then came Paul's diminutive twelve-year-old son James, who seems destined to surpass his father, and who finished ninth. Then Bill, a solid midpacker I see frequently at the gym.
In between and after came all the others, including a guy in a Superman suit. Everyone was friendly. It's obligatory to at least wave and acknowledge the mutually shared suffering as people pass. "Looking good! Good job!" Somehow, each time you hear that, you actually believe that you are looking good and that you are doing a good job.
Until a guy who looked like he crawled out of a grave and sporting tattoos all the way down both legs ran by. "Looking good!" he said. Was this an expert judge of such matters? My confidence momentarily ebbed again.
There was also occasional traffic on the road, perhaps one car every ten minutes on average. Frequently the passengers would wave. One old lady gestured with one extended finger as she drove by. Fortunately, it was her thumb. (What were you thinking!?)
Bringing up the rear was the great Al Clark, who is 85 years old. Al was running his 21st Whiskey Row marathon. He started the race at 4 AM., and finished once again, in a time of 8:26:50. When I passed Al on the return trip I slowed enough to introduce myself and wish him a good race. What an amazing man. "You're looking great, doing a good job!" he told me. Now there's an expert I can trust. I felt good again.
I hit the turnaround in 2:34--the slowest half in history. My PR, run once in training, is 2:04. After more PowerAde and Succeed! it was back up the hill.
Naturally, the 5.1 mile return trip to the lookout is by far the hardest part of the race. I did a lot of walking, and just about everyone I saw coming back ahead of me was also walking. But I knew that afterward there would be an eight-mile blitz to the finish, and I believed I had it in me to get through it relatively well. For two years I had dreamed of making it back to the summit, finding new legs, and rocketing ahead of runner after runner as I churned to the end. What I didn't anticipate is by the time I got there I no longer cared!
I may not be able to run up hills very well, but I can run forever on downhills, and I actually did manage to pass a few people. One fellow my age had passed me twice, and took off from the summit a few seconds ahead of me. Less than ten minutes later I whizzed by him on a steep downhill, and as I went by, I said, "Let gravity do the work!" He laughed, but never caught up again.
My position in the race never changed the last four miles. I first encountered the runner who finished one spot ahead of me about five miles from the start. We played leapfrog the whole way until about six miles from the end. He remained in sight the whole remainder, and for a while I was gaining on him and thought I might be able to pick him off. He told me afterward he had to slow down and deal with a cramp. He also gave a lesson in differential calculus to my daughter.
Parts of the last several miles, from where the pavement begins again, and where vehicle traffic once again becomes steady, until the turnoff to the final stretch, are genuinely dangerous. In places the road is narrow, there is no shoulder at all, and I was forced to run to the left of the white line. Race officials, no doubt at the insistence of the police, insisted we run on the right, with traffic, rather than toward it on the left. In places the pavement to the right of the white line extends just a few inches, is very ragged, and just breaks off, leaving a rough ledge as much as six inches above the unrunnable dirt shoulder. It would have been very easy for a slight misstep to cause a runner to fall badly, maybe into the path of an oncoming car. This is a ready possibility for anyone in an exhausted condition. I would never choose to train on that segment of road.
About a mile from the end I was startled when a cheerful young woman ran up beside me and started to chat. I had not seen her anywhere on the course, and thought I was about to be passed by a marathoner. (I count women as being part of my competition.) Then I realized she was not wearing a number. She was a local resident who had done the two miler, then couldn't find her car keys, so did the whole two miles again looking for them, but didn't see them, so had a friend drive her home. When she took off her sweatshirt the keys fell out of a fold, so now she was running back to retrieve her car. "I feel like I could run forever. I'm in my fifth mile!" she said. "Then we have something in common. I'm in my fifth hour." "You're looking good! Great job!" she replied as she pulled ahead. My completion was thereby assured.
I checked the competition one more time as I made the last turn. The man ahead was almost done, and the next person was thirty or forty seconds behind. Once on that street you can see the big finish sign in the distance, a heartwarming sight. There are two or three intersections to cross first. At the very moment I got to the last one a lady in a car decided to mosey across as though I weren't there, and I was forced to pull up short and circumnavigate around the back end of the car. She was probably entirely unaware of the race going on. She may have wondered what I was doing running down the middle of the street.
From there it was about seventy-five yards to the finish line. As I grunted my way across, I saw my daughter standing in the chute with the camera. She believes she got a good one this time. It was over and I had made it, none the worse for wear.
My oficial time was 5:16:52. I found out later that I was far from last. A total of 24 runners, counting women, finished after me. And so my perfect streak of never finishing dead last remains unbroken. (However, I finished last in my age division on one occasion.)
An alert volunteer pulled the tear strip off my bib and another said, "I think you earned this," as he handed me a finisher's medal, which is actually a cheap, slightly oversized tie pin. Oh well, I didn't do this for the trophy. I didn't even know there was a finisher's medal at this race.
There was nothing left to eat but a few orange slices. I didn't really care. The weather had turned very comfortable, so I just enjoyed hanging around for the awards ceremony and talking to the few people I know, which now includes the winner, who asked if I like my shoes. (His wife said he has or was offered a shoe deal with Montrail.)
Even though I'm a slow, shuffling geezer (a.k.a. chronologically enhanced), I take my running very seriously. I'm in my fifth year of conscientious running. I'm expecting that either 1999 or perhaps 2000 will be my peak year, after which the age and improvement lines on my mental training chart will cross paths, and further effort will begin to yield diminishing returns. I don't mind.
Whenever I run a race I usually set out some goals. In the case of Whiskey Row, it was simply to be able to say I ran the race, and finish without embarrassing myself too badly. Mission accomplished.
Whiskey Row was the third of six races for me this year, preceded by one 10K where I accomplished a PR, and my first 50K. I now have five months ahead with no racing, in which to lose some weight, work on higher intensity short runs, and begin to ramp up first for Twin Cities Marathon, then Tucson Marathon, and finally capping off the year with Across the Years 24-hour race, which I think about daily.
And what will I have accomplished? Nothing significant in the history of the universe. However, this "experiment of one" has been led to the conclusion that almost everyone is capable of far more than he ever dreamed of. This discovery has been one of the biggest revelations of a lifetime.
Lynn Newton
An old, slow, fat geezer with gumption
Phoenix, AZ
May 1, 1999